


Of the Forest

by LauranicusPond



Category: Hatfilms - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Dragons, High Fantasy, M/M, This is sort of a Dungeons and Dragons AU, Warning for slightly shady elves, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10315463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauranicusPond/pseuds/LauranicusPond
Summary: 'A dagger thuds into the floorboard next to Ross’ foot and Ross jolts back, looking up in surprise“Nice try.” The man grins at him, and gets up, slowly making his way over. He crouches and tugs the dagger free, pointing it toward Ross. “What’s your name, boy?”Ross hesitates, eyes on the blade in the man’s hand.“Ross.”'*High Fantasy AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while, so I hope you all enjoy it. It's a direct continuation of the 'Dragons' chapter of my Fandom Advent 2016 so I recommend you give that a quick read first.

When Ross comes to his wrists and ankles have been tied, and he’s been stripped of his armour, bag, and boots. His head throbs. The stone against his back is cold, but the room itself is warm and well lit. It’s rounded, with steps following the curve of the wall up through the wooden ceiling above him. It must be a tower, Ross thinks. There’s only one door that he can see.

At the table on the other side of the room from him, a tall man dressed in dark clothing is going through Ross’ possessions. Ross watches him closely until he thinks he’s distracted enough, and then leans forward to tug at the rope around his ankles. A dagger thuds into the floorboard next to Ross’ foot and Ross jolts back, looking up in surprise

“Nice try.” The man grins at him, and gets up, slowly making his way over. He crouches and tugs the dagger free, pointing it toward Ross. “What’s your name, boy?”

Ross hesitates, eyes on the blade in the man’s hand.

“Ross.”

“Ross...?”

Ross swallows. The man presses the dagger under his chin and tips his head up so that Ross is forced to make eye contact with him. Ross quickly looks away, glancing around the room for inspiration. His eyes land on the barrel propped up beside the door.

“Cooper. Ross Cooper.”

“What were you doing out so far in our forest, Ross Cooper? At night, no less?”

“Your forest?” Ross asks without thinking.

“Answer the question.” The man snarls, digging the point of the dagger in a little.

“I was just... the livestock is getting eaten... the villagers think it might be wolves.” Ross says, thinking fast. He glances down at the man’s hand nervously, then back up at his face. “My father asked me to go out and look into it. I got lost. I didn’t know that there was... that you lived here... Please, please don’t hurt me. Just, please let me go? I won’t tell anyone about you, please.”

The man studies him carefully. Ross has to will himself not to look away. After a long moment, he sits back, and then stands. He walks over to the bottom of the stairs and turns back to look at Ross.

“He’s awake.” He calls, before going back to his seat at the table, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

There are footsteps on the floor above them and a few moments later, a second man makes his way down the stairs. He has long, chestnut hair, loose around his shoulders and pulled into braids here and there. He has one of the braids tucked behind a pointed ear. As he walks down the stairs, he plays a gentle, floating tune on the cittern in his hands. There’s something incredibly familiar about him, but Ross can’t work out how on earth he’d know him. Half-elves are rare in this area, and surely he’d remember meeting one. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and finishes his tune, giving a little bow. The man at the table claps slowly. 

“This is Ross Cooper.” The man at the table says, gesturing at Ross, “Apparently he was looking for wolves.”

“Oh, well that’s not true.” The man on the stairs takes a few steps forward. “Look at those eyes, Smith. I know you’re not from around here but surely even you recognise a Hornby.”

Ross swallows nervously, flexing his hands against the rope on his wrists. Smith looks at the other man and shrugs.

“Minor nobles. No one hugely important” He smiles at Ross. “Lower level knights, I believe.” 

That’s when Ross realises who he is.

“You’re dead.” Ross says, staring at him.

Smith is out of his chair and dragging Ross up onto his feet before he can say any more. He shoves Ross hard against the stone and presses his dagger to his throat.

“Watch your tongue.” He growls, “You’re in no position to be threatening people.”

“I wasn’t -”

“Smith...” The other man starts.

“Trott.” Smith says pointedly, looking over at him, then back at Ross, “Do you want me to get rid of him?”

Ross struggles against Smith’s grip, looking past him at Trott.

“You’re supposed to be dead! They told everyone you died.” Ross manages before Smith thuds him against the wall again. “I watched your funeral procession, watched my mother cry. Watched  _ your  _ mother cry.”

“Enough.” Trott says softly.

Ross glares at Smith, breathing hard. He can already feel where he’s going to have bruises.

“Should I kill him?” Smith asks.

Trott shakes his head.

“Put him in with Vara. She can look after him for the night.”

Trott’s smile makes Ross nervous, Smith’s even more so. Smith yanks Ross by the scruff of his shirt and his bound wrists, half carrying, half dragging him across the room. Ross stumbles, his ankles tied too tight for him to use his feet.

“Come to bed when you’re done, Smith. We’ll deal with him in the morning.”

Ross catches a last glimpse of Trott as Smith fumbles the door open and pulls him out into the dark. He looks achingly sad for the briefest of seconds, and then he’s out of view. Smith pulls Ross over to a stone stable and pushes him in. He slams the door shut behind him and plunges Ross into darkness. 

Ross rolls over onto his hands and knees, letting his eyes adjust. He can just barely make out the shape of the dragon, curled up in the hay in one corner of the room. He thinks she’s sleeping. Ross shuffles awkwardly to the opposite corner, wanting to be as far away from the dragon as he can be. He sighs and props himself up against the wall. 

Reaching down, Ross starts to pick at the knot on the rope around his ankles. It takes him a few minutes of struggling, but eventually he gets it loose and pulls it off. Ross stretches his legs out in front of him and brings his bound wrists up to bite at the knot there. This is harder. He digs the point of his canine into the places where the rope twists, and tugs. Nothing. Ross considers trying to chew through the rope, but gives up, shifting down onto the floor and pillowing his head on his hands. With a final cautious look toward the dragon, Ross closes his eyes. 

Ross falls asleep, and Ross dreams.

* * *

 

Ross dreams of woods. He’s in the middle of a clearing. All around him are dark trees, branches as snow laden as the ground he stands on. The day is clear, and bright, and cold, although Ross doesn’t feel cold himself. He takes a deep breath, feeling the icy air fill his lungs, and watches a cloud of steam billow from his mouth as he breathes out. It’s peaceful here, Ross thinks. He takes a few steps forward, bare feet crunching in the snow. He doesn’t leave any footprints. 

“Hello, Ross Hornby.”

Ross startles and reaches instinctively for his sword. His hand closes around nothing, and Ross remembers his sword is gone. He turns to try and find the source of the voice, but the clearing is gone and all around him is trees. 

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll speak to you again soon.” 

The voice has a strange accent, a lilt to it that Ross has never heard before. He opens his mouth to reply but his tongue is dry and scratchy and he can’t make a sound.

* * *

 

The door slams open, and Ross jerks awake, scrambling up against the wall as best he can with his hands still tied. He squints in the white daylight that streams around the shape of Smith in the doorframe. To the side of him, the dragon gets to her feet and pads over to Smith. He steps out of her way and strokes over her back as she walks past him. Ross watches her, then glances up at Smith.

“Up,” Smith tells him, leaning against the doorframe, “Trott wants to have a conversation with you, boy. I don’t see why we’re bothering to keep you alive, to be honest.” He grins at Ross. “Vara could do with some variation in her diet.”

Ross swallows nervously, pushing himself up the wall onto his feet. He feels off-balance, dizzy. He takes a couple of slow steps forward before Smith comes toward him and grabs him by the rope on his wrists. He leads him out of the stable and across the muddy ground to the tower. Ross glances up as he’s pulled forward. The tower looks at least six stories high, the stone old and weathered, thick ivy crawling up one side of it. The door is pushed open, and Smith shoves him inside. Ross stumbles, turning in time to see Smith wink at him and pull the door shut again. 

“Take a seat.”

Ross turns back quickly. Trott sits cross-legged on one of the chairs, his cittern in his lap. He smiles, and gestures to the other chairs. Ross shakes his head.

“No thank you.”

“As you will,” Trott shrugs, plucking out a simple tune on the strings of his cittern, “I was hoping you’d tell me what you’re doing out here, Hornby.”

Ross watches him, considering. 

“I told you. The livestock is getting eaten, I was looking for wolves. My father thinks they’re the culprit.” 

“Your father know a lot about wolves, does he?” Trott asks, “I didn’t think knights really dealt with that sort of thing. Unless maybe they’re trying to find something to busy him with.” Ross feels his cheeks heating up, and looks down at his feet. “Now, I’m going to ask you again, Hornby, and I suggest that you tell me the truth this time.” Trott continues his tune on the cittern, “What are you doing out here?”

Ross opens his mouth to repeat himself, and then stops. Trott’s melody rings in his ears. Why is he lying, he wonders? Just telling Trott the truth would be easier.

“I was leaving home. I don’t want to be a knight. I was heading toward Koppar, to the university. I don’t really think that anyone other than my mother will miss me.” Ross says slowly. 

Trott stops playing, and sets the cittern on the table. Ross blinks and frowns, shaking his head slightly. He meets Trott’s gaze, and understands, taking a step forward angrily.

“What was that? How did you make me do that?” 

Trott gestures slightly to the cittern, and then folds his hands in his lap.

“Why were you lying?”

“Why do you care?!”

Trott tips his head, looking up at Ross. Ross glares back at him. He wishes his wrists weren’t bound, although he’s never been too good at hand to hand combat. Still, he thinks, eyes flicking to Trott’s arms, Trott doesn’t look that strong. He could probably take him. 

“That’s not your concern.”

“It fucking is!”

Trott smiles calmly, and something about it makes the hairs stand up on the back of Ross’ neck. He hesitates, and then takes a step back. The room is silent aside from the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Ross wonders if the noise of his heart thumping is as loud to Trott as it is to him. 

“Your concern, Ross Hornby, should be what we’re going to do with you now that I know you pose no threat.” 

Ross swallows nervously.

“Kill me?” 

“Smith wants to send you out into the forest. He doesn’t think you’ll make it out alive. I'm not so keen on that idea.”

“You’ll let me go then?”

Trott laughs.

“No. For now, you stay here. You do as I say, you do as my partner says.” Trott smiles that calm smile again, “I don’t necessarily want you dead, but he’s quick with a knife and has a hungry pet.”

“I understand.” Ross says quietly. 

“Good.”

Trott stands, curling his fingers around the hilt of one of the daggers on the table. Ross takes a step back instinctively as Trott approaches him, but Trott takes Ross’ wrists in his other hand.

“Stay still.” 

Ross’ muscles tense as Trott slides the blade between his wrists and starts to cut through the rope. He watches carefully, considering throwing a punch the moment his hands are free, but the dagger glints in the firelight. Ross rubs his wrists, eyeing Trott cautiously.

“What now?”

“Go outside. Help Smith.”

“Can I have my boots? If I’m going to be working outside?”

“Of course.” Trott moves away, sitting back at the table and pulling his cittern back into his lap. “They’re by the door.”

Ross thinks, again, of lunging for Trott. Of punching him, or going for the dagger now abandoned on the table. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he goes to his boots and pulls them on. His wrists are grazed and sore where the rope had rubbed against his skin. Ross can feel Trott’s gaze on him, and so straightens and slips outside without looking over. 

Ross doesn’t see Trott again for days. Smith wakes him, Smith gives him jobs to do, Smith gives him food and watery ale to drink, and a thin blanket. Ross gets used to sleeping in the hay quicker than he’d thought he would do. Each and every night, Ross dreams of the forest.

* * *

 

“Where are you from, Smith?” Ross asks, dragging the last of the dirty hay out from the stable. 

Smith sets a bucket of water next to him. 

“Sluice the floor.” 

He goes back to his seat by the closed door of the tower. Ross leans the rake up against the stable wall and picks up the bucket with a sigh.

* * *

 

“Where is this?” Ross trails his fingers along the branches of one of the trees. Snow floats down around him. 

“This is my home.” The voice tells him. “My domain. It's pretty great, right?” 

Ross nods and closes his eyes, listening to the ever present sound of running water.

* * *

 

Ross tries again a few days later, halfway up a ladder and scraping ivy from the stone of the tower. 

“How long have you and Trott been here?” he asks conversationally, glancing down at Smith. 

Smith doesn’t even look up at him. Ross watches him for a moment or two longer before going back to scraping at the ivy.

* * *

 

Ross stands in the clearing, his boots ankle deep in the ever-fresh snow. It’s different, this time, from all the others. There’s a long pathway leading into the trees, the branches overhead tangled so tightly that barely any of the bright white daylight passes through them. Ross takes a few tentative steps forward to look down the path. It runs long and straight for as far as Ross can see in the dim light. 

“Ross.”

“Yes?” 

“Come on.”

“Why?” Ross asks as he steps onto the path. 

“Well shit, I thought you might want to meet me by now.”

Ross laughs, and so does the voice. There’s a part of Ross that knows how very stupid this could turn out to be. Ross ignores it, and starts to walk down the path. The light fades the further down the path he gets, and when Ross turns to look back, the clearing is gone. There’s just trees, and snow, and more trees, stretching out forever on all sides. The forest quietens, sound disappearing with the light. Ross can hear the crunching of his boots in the snow, and nothing else. Even the voice has gone. Ross keeps walking. He can barely see his hands in front of his face. It’s too dark, too quiet, and for the first time in this place, Ross can feel the cold. 

It’s just a dream, he tells himself. A dream like any other. 

Ross rounds a corner and suddenly steps out into warm sunshine. 

“It’s not a dream.” The voice says.

Ross squints, his eyes adjusting to the light. He’s on the edge of the clearing he always begins in. In the centre of the clearing there’s a throne made of dark, carved wood, and in the throne lounges a man in a loose shirt and trousers similar to Ross’ own. He has pointed ears, like Trott’s, but more exaggerated, and his face has a sharpness to it that Ross hasn’t seen before. He beckons Ross forward.

“Who are you?” Ross asks.

The Elf sprawled in the chair grins. 

“Come out of the trees at least, Ross, sheesh.” 

Ross takes a couple of cautious steps forward.

“There we go, that wasn’t so hard!” The Elf smiles wider and gets to his feet. He’s almost as tall as Ross, Ross realises as he gets closer. “I’m Sips.” 

“Sips?” Ross repeats, shaking Sips’ extended hand.

“It’s a shorter version of a long-ass elvish name,” Sips pulls a face, “Way too much for me. Anyway, come sit with me.” Sips smiles at Ross, gesturing over toward the wooden throne. 

“But there’s only one- Oh.” Ross stops, looking over at the throne, a new, smaller, wooden seat at an angle next to it. Where Sips’ throne is carved with antlers and foliage, the smaller one has a set of crossed swords and a pattern of stars on the back of it. 

Sips leads Ross over to the chairs, lowering himself into his with a groan. Ross settles into his. The wood of the armrests is cool and smooth under his fingertips. They sit in silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward, in fact, it’s the most relaxed Ross has felt in days. Beside him, Sips has his eyes shut, leaned back in his throne. Ross has so many questions. He digs his toes into the snow, listening to it crunch under his boots.

“The university isn’t all that hot you know.”

“What do you mean?” Ross looks over at Sips, frowning slightly.

“It’s not that great.” Sips shrugs, his eyes still closed. “If knowledge in general is what you’re after, it’s not all that hot.” 

Ross bites at his bottom lip. 

“It’s all book learning and dusty,” Sips continues, finally looking over at Ross, “No, uh… no fun to be had.”

“How else do you learn?” Ross asks, “If it’s not from books?”

“Did you learn to use a sword from a book, Ross?” Ross shakes his head. “Well how did you learn that then?”

“I… my tutor taught me.”

“Exactly. Learn from someone who already knows what it is you want to know.”

“I don’t think I understand what you’re saying, Sips.”

“You’re kinda slow for someone so clever,” Sips laughs, leaning to tap Ross’ forehead, “Let me give you what I know.”

Ross watches Sips carefully. 

“Why? What is it that you know?”

“I know a lot more than any of the teachers at the university do. Useful stuff too, not all runes and math.”

“Like what? Making chairs appear?”

Sips laughs.

“That, amongst other things.” Sips gestures lazily out at the trees on the edge of the clearing. A bolt of purple energy streaks out from his hand and slams into one of the trees. Ross jumps in his seat, watching wide eyed as the branch cracks and swings before falling into the snow. The bark of the tree smolders, grey smoke spiraling slowly into the air. Ross turns to look at Sips, his mouth open slightly.

“What was that?!”

“Something you could learn from me, Ross.” 

“You want to teach me magic?” 

“I want to give you the knowledge and the power to do the things that you want to do.” 

“Why me?"

“I like you, Ross Hornby. And I want you to do something for me in return.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fetch something for me. It won’t be too difficult. But you’ll need to be able to leave your… current living situation to do it. Hence the help on the power side.”

Ross chews on his lip, glancing over at the tree. The damage Sips had done has completely disappeared. Ross isn’t even sure which tree it was that Sips had hit. This feels like a very bad idea. Ross rubs his thumb idly over the polished wood of his chair, thinking. Imagine having that power. Imagine the other things he could do if he just knew how to. Ross glances at Sips.

“Can I think about it?”

Sips shrugs.

“Sure. I’m sure as hell not going anywhere.” 

Ross leans back into his chair and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he's curled on the hay in the stable with his blanket tangled around his waist.

* * *

 

Smith swings the axe in an arc down into the log with a satisfying thud, splitting it neatly in two. He gathers the pieces and sets them in the piles growing in Ross’ arms. Ross’s arms ache from the weight and from how long he’s been standing out in the clearing with Smith. He stifles a yawn, and wonders how it got to be that he yearned for a bed made of straw and a scratchy blanket. Still, he's not been sleeping well since his meeting with Sips. His nights are dreamless. He misses the forest. 

Ross looks out at the trees surrounding them absently. There’s movement, a flash of light reflecting off something, and then pain. Ross cries out, his armful of logs tumbling to the floor. Ross stares down at his leg in horror. There’s a crossbow bolt embedded in his thigh, the wooden shaft dripping with thick purple ichor. Another bolt whizzes past, narrowly missing Smith’s head. 

“Trott!” Smith yells, dropping his axe and flinging two daggers from his belt out toward where the bolts are coming from.

There’s a yelp of pain from the treeline, and Smith grins triumphantly before a bolt slams into his shoulder, making him stagger backwards. Another thuds into his chest and Smith crumples to the floor. 

“Trott!” Ross shouts, dropping to his knees and crawling toward Smith. Pain shoots through his body from the bolt in his leg. Smith’s lips are tinged with blue, the veins in his neck purple through his skin. “Shit.” Ross murmurs. 

His vision swims, and Ross closes his eyes. Just to rest them, he thinks. Just a little rest. His forehead butts Smith’s leather armour, and Ross blinks awake for a second before letting his eyes close again.

“Need some help there, Ross?” Sips asks, a disembodied voice in the darkness.

“Please, Sips.” Ross mumbles. His tongue feels so heavy.

“Gonna help me out?” 

“Yeah. Please. Just help us.” Gods, Ross is tired. 

“Deal.” 

Ross feels a hand in his, shaking it firmly before tugging him up onto his feet. Ross opens his eyes and lifts his hand up in front of him. A jet of blue energy shoots out of his outstretched palm and out into the trees. There’s a scream of pain, and then Ross catches sight of two figures disappearing away into the forest, one tall, one short. Ross looks at his hand curiously. It looks the same as always. 

“Huh.” Ross manages before the world goes sideways and his vision goes black. 


End file.
